The Envelope
It's the same as the first one, except it says "Seek". I'll retake this later, if anyone's interested.
Back of Envelope (Open)
It's all the same as the other one. I just took a shot of how it looked when I opened it. This sheet is smaller then the other one, I think.
Paper in the Envelope (Front, Outside)
"Janus". It's all standard here, not like the funky letters on the other page.
Paper in the Envelope (Reverse, Outside)
Another poem. Can the interested parties make this out?
Paper in the Envelope (Front, Inside)
A triangle with a line through it. Better drawn then the circle, slightly, although I'm wondering what the obsession with shapes-with-lines-through them is/
Paper in the Envelope (Reverse, Inside)
"Aporia". And "II".
God, I'm tired. I would laugh at this, but I'm really, really tired.
Don't expect me to be posting as regularly as I have been. I don't think I'm getting enough sleep... however, I am intrigued by something.
"Janus". I learnt that name in school. It's the Roman god of doors. Now, isn't that interesting? Considering my run-in with the hallucination? So, mystery sender, how did you know about that? Or did you just think it was a good name and slapped it on?
I want to go over these. Now, readers of the blog... do you have anything? Do you, in any case, care? I doubt it. But if you know what anything in this blog means... tell me. I want to know about this. "Janus". Janus, Janus, Janus...
Isn't that some Roman god or some shit like that?
ReplyDeleteThat's what I said, yeah. "Roman god of doors".
ReplyDeleteSorry, I saw the word Janus and immediately commented... ^_^;
ReplyDeleteWell, you're probably not going to come back all these months to read this but just in case someone else stumbles through here at this late date that's a fragment of John Donne's "Death be not proud, though some have called thee". In full it reads:
ReplyDeleteDEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.